Choking
by ancilla89
Summary: He's choking and he doesn't know how to breathe, how to live, without her. Spoilers for seasons 8 and 9.
1. Chapter 1

They had told him he couldn't—shouldn't—see her body, that it was unrecognizable, that they'd only made a positive identification based on the flight manifesto and the wedding ring.

He'd insisted. He'd been on the job long enough to know: no body, no crime. No body, no death.

When he left the morgue, he puked.

He had planned to go back to his dad's—there were the boys to comfort, and the funeral to plan, and five million details to take care of—but instead he drove to the tall building that housed Alex Dawson's office on the second floor.

He pounded on the door.

Doc opened it. "I'm in the middle…Detective Reagan…Danny!…what's wrong?"

"She's dead, Doc. Linda's dead."

He swayed—he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, or slept, or drank water.

Doc pulled a chair over, pushed him into it, pressed a bottle of water into his hand.

He heard voices; the other patient left; and then the door closed and it was just him and Doc and he was f-g going to die.

He was chugging the water like he'd been wandering in the desert for 40 days.

A warm, familiar hand on his back. The bottle plucked out of his hand. "Whoah, slow down, Danny. Slow your breathing down. You're going to choke."

He spluttered and coughed and Doc's trashcan was in front of him and he threw up all the water.

The calm voice that had talked him through panic attacks for 5 f-g years was saying the same words, but they were just words and words didn't matter, nothing mattered, because Linda was dead and why the F wasn't he?

"I can't…"

More words.

He was breathing again.

Doc's hand on his back. "Can you tell me what happened, Danny?"

"Yesterday…last night…my schedule had changed and so Linda worked a shift. And there was a patient who had to be airlifted, and Linda was on the chopper, and it went down, and…I just came from identifying her body. What…what's left of it."

He choked.

"I am so sorry, Danny."

He nodded dully.

He had spent the night, sleepless, in his dad's living room.

He hadn't wanted to tell the boys that night, but he couldn't keep this from them.

They'd held on to him in a way they hadn't in years, and Jack had cried himself to sleep on the couch, and Sean had stumbled onto the porch. Someone—Jamie? Erin?—had gotten both boys to go upstairs eventually.

Because he was too f-g useless to be there for his sons.

"You're not useless, Danny, you were in shock. You'll be there for them when they need you."

"I should be there with them, not…not sitting here talking about my f-g feelings."

"You have to take care of yourself before you can take care of them. You know what they say on airplanes? Put your own oxygen mask on before you put on your child's?"

He nodded, closed his eyes. "I can't cry, Doc. What the hell is wrong with me?"

"You're in shock, Danny. It's normal."

Shock.

He knew about shock. He had seen it in victims' family members. Hell, he'd probably felt it before.

His phone rang, and he jumped.

It was his dad.

"Sorry, Doc. Hey, Dad."

"_Danny, where are you? We'd thought you'd be back by now._"

He cursed. Couldn't worry the family. "Sorry, Dad. I…I'm…I stopped by Doc's office after going to, to…the…the…morgue. Kicked his other patient out. Should've called you. I'm sorry."

"_It's okay, we just wanted to know you were safe. Call me when you leave, okay?_"

"Sure." He knew his dad was worried that he was in shock, that he'd do something stupid.

He hung up. "I can't…what the hell am I supposed to do now, Doc?"

"Go home, be with your boys, your family. Plan the funeral."

"Doc, how the hell can I plan her funeral when I can't even…?"

"One minute at a time, Danny, one minute at a time."

He shook his head. "Doc, I _can't_!"

"Okay, okay, we won't worry about that right now. Tell me about this morning. Why did you go alone to the morgue?"

"I…I don't…"

Because he didn't want anyone to see if he reacted badly—if he fainted or puked or punched something. He hadn't fainted, which he supposed was a good thing. He'd puked—even though he hadn't eaten anything since Sunday dinner.

Family dinner. She had…it had been the first one she'd missed in years. She'd picked up the shift because he'd had a schedule change—so it was his fault.

He couldn't tell Doc that. Doc would argue with him, and he couldn't hear that right now.

"I didn't want anyone to see if I…did anything stupid."

"Did you?"

"I puked. Even though I hadn't eaten anything since family dinner yesterday."

"That's a normal reaction to trauma, Danny; there's nothing stupid about it."

_Yeah, right_.

"Doc!" he said desperately.

The warm hand on his back again, rubbing soothing circles until he could breathe and he wasn't choking and maybe he could actually drive home…no, not home, because their home had been gone now for almost a month…maybe he could drive back to his dad's without dying.

He stood up. "I…I should get back to the boys."

Doc stood up, nodded. "Text me when you're back at your dad's, would you?"

He nodded and left.


	2. Chapter 2

He finally broke down ten days after the crash. The funeral was going to be the following morning.

And the burial. They were going to put his wife's body into the ground.

He sobbed until his nose was stuffed and his throat and head hurt.

He really wanted a drink but if he had even one drink now he would drink until he passed out.

So instead he took two ibuprofen—Linda would have chewed him out for taking it on an empty stomach—and paced the floor of his old bedroom until his grandfather knocked on the door.

"Sorry I woke you, Pops," he muttered.

"You didn't, I was already awake. It's an old house, Danny, the floors creak. Come downstairs and have a glass of milk with me."

He didn't _want_ a glass of milk; he didn't _want_ to be coddled; he didn't _want_ to talk! He wanted to f-g stop thinking, but pacing in his old bedroom was just making him think more; so he followed the old man downstairs, held his mug of warm milk in his hands.

"Whatever you're gonna say, Pops, about this being God's plan, please don't."

His grandfather shook his head. "I wasn't going to say that, Danny."

Oh. "Then what?"

"I was going to say if you need to talk to your dad or to me, all you need to do is ask."

He nodded. "Thanks. I wouldn't even know where to start."

He finished his milk, stood up, put the mug in the dishwasher. "Thanks for the chat, Pops," he said, and went back upstairs to resume his pacing.

* * *

The church was stuffy—early June in New York was _hot_; early June in New York in a church packed with his family and Linda's family (minus that no-good brother of hers) and his friends in the NYPD and her friends from the hospital was hotter than hell.

He couldn't breathe and he was going to die but he couldn't leave in the middle of his wife's funeral Mass so he loosened his tie and tried to drink discreetly from the bottle of water Erin had given him.

Jack and Sean sat on either side of him, each with a head on his shoulder—even Jack, who was taller than him now. They were 16 and 14, but seemed so much younger in their grief.

He stood, sat, knelt, and said the responses. He stared at the hymnbook and the words blurred and he didn't even try to sing.

Then he and the boys were ushered into the car following the hearse. He had forgotten there would be a funeral procession.

The burial was private—just the family. He was glad about that.

He held the boys close as the priest blessed the grave and as the casket was lowered into the ground.

They went back to his dad's.

His stomach tied itself into a million little knots the minute he sat down. That had been the routine ever since he got the news. It would be easier if he were at work—no one looking over his shoulder, noticing if he hadn't shown up for meals—but he'd been on bereavement leave since it happened so someone always noticed.

He took small portions—each dish provided by one of Linda's friends; from what his dad had said, they had enough food to last them a month—moved the food around his plate.

Erin was looking at him—that blasted pitying look she had perfected—so he stabbed a piece of meat with his fork, hastily chewed it.

He swallowed wrong and nearly choked.

He bolted into the kitchen and coughed up the meat.

A hand rubbing circles on his back. "Easy, Danny, just breathe."

His dad. _Just breathe_. Easy for him to say.

He shook his head, leaning heavily on the sink because his legs had turned to rubber. "I _can't_."

"Yes, you can."

"No, Dad, I _can't_. I can't sleep, I can't eat, there's a lump in my throat all the time like I'm choking. I can't."

He pulled away before he did something stupid like punch his father, grabbed his keys off the counter. "I'm going for a drive. Call Doc if I'm not back by dark."

He forced his rubbery legs to carry him to the door and out to the porch. He slammed the door behind him as his dad called, "Danny, wait, the boys…!"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This obviously breaks with the line in Seas****on 8, Episode 1, Cutting Losses, where Doc says, "**_**You've been coming here for months, and you have never uttered the words that she's gone, that she's dead, that she's never coming back. **__**It's not healthy, Danny, and you know it**_**." ****I highly doubt that Danny had not said the words—not in 4 months (May 28 – Sep 29 when S8E01 aired); perhaps Doc was using hyperbole to get a point across.**

**Also, I had planned to have this session in Doc's office, but the Muse had other ideas.**

He felt guilty leaving the boys, but he couldn't stay another minute in that stifling house where he'd grown up.

He drove on auto-pilot, not paying attention to where he was going, and found himself at the cemetery. He couldn't go in, see the fresh grave next to the ones that had been there for 8, 12, 16 years…

He kept driving.

* * *

He blinked when he realized he was on Amboy Road.

Somehow he had driven all the way from his dad's to Staten Island without being aware of it. That was bad. That was really bad.

He parked in front of the spot where his house used to stand.

Now all that was left was a pile of rubble surrounded by yellow caution tape. Tape that wouldn't prevent anyone from walking in. A feral cat scurried out from underneath a pile, hissed at him, and sauntered proudly away.

The last time he'd stood here…barely over a month ago…Linda and the boys had been in his arms as they watched their house burn down.

He had known it was his fault but he couldn't say that out loud.

Now she was dead and it was his fault.

He was too exhausted to be angry. Eleven days and he'd been averaging 4 hours of sleep a night.

He sank to the curb.

He didn't trust himself to drive back across the bridge to Doc's office. He pulled his phone out,

cursing when he realized his hands were shaking. "Danny, what's wrong?"

"I need to talk but I can't drive to your office. I…I'm on Staten Island and I'm not sure how I got here." He hadn't blacked out…he just…

"Are you alone, Danny?"

He nodded. "Yeah." Dammitall, yes, he was.

"I'm on my way. Anybody you can hang with until I get there? A neighbor, someone?"

He shook his head. He really did not want one of their neighbors to see him like this…to see him here, in front of what used to be his home… "No," he choked out.

"Danny, I want you to get in your car and lock the doors. It's gonna take me about 45 minutes. I'm putting you on speaker-phone, okay? Keep talking to me, okay?"

He nodded but didn't get in the car. He sat on the curb and listened to Doc talking calmly and the only thing keeping him from zoning out completely was Doc's voice.

Still, he jumped when a car door slammed and Doc sat down next to him.

"Th…thanks for coming," he whispered, his head in his hand.

"You're welcome. How'd you end up here?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I drove past the cemetery and I was going to call you but then I just started driving and I've made the drive so often I guess I just came here on auto-pilot. Don't know how I didn't get into an accident."

Probably those defensive driving lessons he'd taken in the Corps and in the NYPD.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

He shook his head. "The funeral and burial was today. Went back to dad's for a meal. Couldn't eat. Haven't, really, been able to eat since…it happened…because there's this lump in my throat and I feel like I'm going to choke and die. Actually did choke on a piece of meat at family dinner. Dad told me to breathe. I _can't_, so I bolted."

He raised his head, looked at Doc through eyes that hurt. "Still can't believe it's real. Can't sleep—and when I do fall asleep, I wake up expecting her to be next to me, expecting it to all be a bad dream. It never is."

"I'm so sorry, Danny. As for what your dad said…he probably meant that he wanted you to relax a bit, give yourself space and time to grieve."

He pounded the curb with his fist. "I _can't_! Don't you get it? It was my fault! She changed her shift because of my job, and it's my fault she's dead!"

He stood up, shakily, paced in front of the charred remnants of his house. "I couldn't cry till last night-it took 10 f-g days for me to bawl my eyes out last night. She was my wife, and she's dead, and I couldn't cry! What the hell is wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you, Danny; you're still in shock."

He stopped pacing, shook his head, let out a shuddery breath. He did not want to lose it again here, in front of Doc.

"It's okay to cry," Doc said.

He shook his head, sank back onto the curb. Tears were stinging his eyes, and he covered them with his hand.

"I'm going to touch you, Danny." Even with the warning, he still jumped at the hand on his back. "It's okay to cry," Doc said again.

He tried to swallow the tears, but the lump in his throat was growing, choking off his airway, filling his lungs.

He couldn't breathe. He was f-g going to die here, in front of his torched house, eleven days after his wife had died.

Doc's hands were gripping his shoulders, shaking him. "Breathe, Danny!"

He took a gasping breath.

"I can't…"

He squeezed his eyes shut to keep back the tears. _Doesn't matter what you say, it matters that you're there._

_We don't blame you, Danny._

_Just say it, brother._

That first family dinner after his house was torched…had been brutal.

He heard a harsh, wheezing breath. Was that him?

"That's it, Danny, you're doing good. Take another breath."

He wanted to hit the younger man, to scream at him—_Why should I breathe when she can't and it's all my fault?_—but screaming required oxygen and oxygen required breathing and he couldn't.

The hands on his shoulders shook him again.

He took another breath.

_Shouldn't be breathing_, he thought as he buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

* * *

He sat there, on that desolate curb in front of the charred remnants of his house, and didn't say a word, and Doc sat there with him until he could breathe and he was steady enough to drive back to his dad's.


	4. Chapter 4

The funeral was on a Thursday.

He went back to work the next day—it wasn't like he was getting paid to sit around.

He must have looked at his phone twenty times during the first two hours of their tour—which were at their desks doing paperwork—because Baez finally stood up, walked over to him, and plucked his phone out of his hand. "Stop torturing yourself, Danny," she said quietly.

He nodded. She knew him too well—on some level, he was still expecting a call, a text, _something_, from Linda.

When Baez handed his phone back to him later, he turned it off.

As they drove to the crime scene—because finally they'd caught a case and he wasn't going to have to sit at his desk all day—he reflected, vaguely, that he must still be in shock. He felt numb.

He still did his job and protected his partner and caught the bad guy and didn't do anything stupid—he was numb, not suicidal—but the satisfaction, the thrill, was gone, and he wondered if this was what the rest of his life would be like.

* * *

When he wasn't working, he moped—or would have, if anyone had left him alone with his thoughts.

His family, however, had made it their mission to ensure that he didn't spend a waking minute alone.

His grandfather called him to blather every time Danny had a dull moment at work.

Erin always seemed to need his help with a case, or to have time to meet him for lunch.

Jamie invited him to the firing range, or to the pub, two, three times a week. And he got that Harvard disappointed tone if Danny tried to beg off, saying he was tired. It wasn't a lie—he was f-g exhausted.

The days blurred and ran into each other, interrupted by sleepless nights staring at the ceiling of his old bedroom.

The house was too old, too creaky, for him to get up and pace like he wanted to; that would be an open invitation for either his father or his grandfather to corner him and lure him downstairs. That was what old, widowed people did—spent their nights at the kitchen table with warm milk and whiskey. Not him. He spent his sleepless nights staring at his ceiling.

Not remembering May 28 and how he got the news, but the life they lived before that date. Because if he started to think back on May 28, he would get his gun out and hold the barrel to his mouth, and… He couldn't leave his boys orphans.

So he didn't think about May 28, he didn't talk about May 28.

* * *

He didn't know when he'd made the decision, but he was already talking to the proper people about putting in his papers when Erin begged him to take Jack's case.

He'd expected pushback about him retiring.

He hadn't expected Doc to push back that hard.

"_You need to retire because it's what you really want, and not as a reaction to what's happened these past few months_."

He cursed as he stormed out of Doc's office.

Of course it was a reaction. Everything these days was a reaction to what had happened.

He didn't know how else to live, what else to do.

He couldn't live as if it hadn't happened.

Every action, every thought, was only happening because she was dead and it was his fault.

* * *

When Weber asked where he was on May 28, Danny saw red.

He stormed out of the attorney's office, took the stairs, and was pummeling the side of the building when Baez came out. "I talked him out of filing charges."

Danny cursed.

He should have punched the bastard.

Of course, then he'd be on modified, and then he'd have even more time to sit around and think.

So maybe it was a good thing his fist hadn't made contact with the other man's nose…

* * *

Doc's words were still ringing in his ears when he got home that night.

_I'm able to live my life._

_That's what everyone wants for you._

_Linda's death wasn't your fault_.

He stalked past his grandfather, ignoring his offer of dinner, up the stairs, and into his old bedroom. The boys were downstairs doing homework but there was nothing left in him to give them.

"_Able to live my life, able to live my life, able to live my life_."

Whatever the hell that meant.

Sure, he was alive.

He was eating (sort of) and breathing and working and not sleeping and maybe that wasn't exactly _living_, but he didn't know what else to do, and there was no way he was going to eat his gun and leave his boys orphans.

* * *

When the case was closed, he went by Erin's office before going to put his papers in.

She said the same thing Doc had said in more than one session—somehow he heard it better coming from her than from his shrink.

"_What you're good at, is the job. Maybe you need the job_."

Maybe he did need the job.

He swung by the Retirement Unit and tore up his papers—they had a backlog of paperwork and wouldn't have gotten to his for another week, or so said the brusque little filing clerk.

* * *

After family dinner at what was apparently going to be his new home, he made the boys go back to his dad's—he wasn't ready for the first night in a new home without her there—made a phone call, and drove to Doc's office.

"Jamie said '_This is your new home_.' I haven't had a new home since…we bought that one when Sean was born, after my second tour."

He shook his head, remembering. "When Dad said everything I needed was right there…I almost turned and walked out."

He shook his head, cursing at the tears that were stinging his eyes. "Because…the one thing I need…the one person I need to hold my hand and tell me that…she wasn't right there."

He leaned his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and wept.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: This chapter takes place during Season 8, Episode 1, Cutting Losses, expanding upon the scene between Frank and Henry**.

"_Is he back yet_?" Frank asked, knowing Danny had had a session with Dr. Dawson that evening.

His father nodded sadly. "_Came in the front door and went straight upstairs. No dinner, no chitchat, no nothing_."

They chatted for a bit…quicksand, what got them out of it…and then his father said, "For all his blather about putting his papers in…he needs the job." He sipped at his whisky. "Irene Ginty's house is for sale. Might help him if he were forced to take care of the boys instead of leaving them to us. Like you said, give him purpose, something to live for."

Frank nodded, and went upstairs.

* * *

Danny had been sitting on the edge of his old bed since he got home, staring at the picture of him and Linda on their wedding day.

There was a knock on the door. "Danny."

"What, Dad?" he snapped

"Can I come in?"

He stood, walked to the door, opened it, leaned on the doorframe. "What?"

"There's a plate in the fridge with your name on it. Pops saved it for you."

"Baez and I had a late lunch," he lied. "I don't need you and Pops coddling me."

"We're not coddling you. I'm glad you decided to stick with the job, but you can't do your job if you don't eat. The boys are downstairs doing homework. Be good if you checked on them."

He started to rattle off his usual line—"I'm not the homework guy"—then remembered the argument he and Linda had had about that when Jack failed algebra.

"What do I say? I never helped them with homework. I…" He choked.

"_It doesn't matter what you say, Dan. It matters that you're there_."

"What the hell does that even mean, Dad? I can't be there for them when I'm barely even…" He shook his head.

"If you need to talk or reminisce or vent, you can always come to me or Pops. But the boys need _you_, not me or Pops."

He sighed, nodded. "I'll be down in a sec."

He stood up.

"I'll go heat your dinner up," his father said, and left.

He stalked into the bathroom.

He slammed the door, splashed cold water on his face. _You look like crap, Reagan,_ he told himself. It was the nightmares, that was it. Some idiot had gotten a video of the crash, and despite his father's best efforts to keep him away from the news, he'd caught a glimpse—and it was what he saw every time he closed his eyes.

* * *

He went downstairs, ate dinner only because his grandfather's feelings would be hurt and his dad would nag him if he didn't.

His dad and grandfather disappeared upstairs, and it was just him and the boys.

He sat on the couch, twirling his ring, until Jack slammed his notebook closed. "Done!"

Sean followed suit a few minutes later.

They joined him in the living room.

"Dad, what are you gonna do if you quit?"

He shrugged, shook his head. "Haven't thought that far ahead. Find a safe job, where people aren't pointing guns at me 30% of the time."

Well, maybe it was more than 30%...

"Would Mom want you to quit?"

That question from Sean about made his heart stop.

He leaned his elbows on his knees, stared at the ground. "I…I don't know. We…now and then, after a bad case, we fought about the job, about me putting myself in danger. So maybe she'd be glad. I don't know. Do you boys want me to quit?"

"No," Jack said, and the firmness in his tone made Danny look his boy in the eyes. "We want you to be safe."

He nodded, stood up. "Ever since I married your mom…first thing I think about before I go to work, and last thing I think about before going to bed, is coming home safe to you all. That's not gonna change."

He stood up and bolted for the stairs before he did something stupid, like cry in front of his sons.

He changed and went to bed.

But he couldn't sleep.

He stared at the ceiling, and let his mind drift to all the bad days…Linda getting kidnapped, her getting shot, her fury when he walked into the middle of a bank robbery…

"Love you most," he whispered through his tears, and fell asleep praying for the repose of her soul.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Last chapter was a flashback to an earlier part of 8-1. This chapter picks up after 8-1 ends. Sorry for being so scattered**!

The weekend after that unexpected Sunday dinner at the new house, he and the boys moved in. He worked Saturday, then came home and dismantled the queen-sized bed he and Linda had shared during their all-too-brief time at his dad's, put it out on the curb with a sign "FREE."

He had thought about taking a sledgehammer to the bedframe, but figured their new neighbors might get uncomfortably nosy if they saw him.

He took the mattress to the dump, then put together a twin bed that reminded him of what he had slept on in the Corps. Maybe he would actually sleep if he weren't reaching to the other side of the bed to pull Linda close…

It wasn't working.

He rolled over on the stiff, new mattress to look at the clock.

2 a.m.

Great.

At least they didn't have to be anywhere until 10:30 Mass.

4 months and two days…

* * *

He slogged through Mass.

He sent Jack and Sean with Jamie to his dad's, then made his usual detour by the cemetery.

He stood in front of her tombstone, in a line with the other Reagan tombstones. "They rented a house for the boys and me. First house in, what, 20 years, without you in it. It's different. Hard. Miss you."

He dropped to one knee in front of the tombstone. "Love you." He pressed his finger to his lips, then to the cold stone. "Love you more," he whispered brokenly, and then, "Love you most."

Then he turned, walked back to the car, drove to his dad's house.

"You look like crap," Erin said when he came to the table.

He glared at her. "Thank you."

"You were late, so you can say grace," his grandfather said.

Felt like he had heard those words every week since it happened.

He shook his head, pushed his chair back, and stalked into the backyard.

He leaned on the low brick wall surrounding his mother's garden.

A door opened and closed.

"Danny. The boys don't need to see you like this," his dad said behind him.

He didn't turn around. "Like _what_, Dad? You want me to be over it by now? There's f-g nothing to be grateful for! Linda is dead!"

"I didn't say I expect you to be over it, Danny. Grief doesn't have a timeline. But there are plenty of reasons to be grateful sitting around the table inside."

He whirled. "What the hell did you mean last week, '_Everything you need is right here_'? Because it's not. The one constant, the one person who's never let me down in the past 20 years, was Linda! And now she's gone and I don't know how to go on without her!"

"I'm sorry you feel that your siblings and your mother and I weren't here for you," his dad said evenly.

"Not what I meant, and you know it!"

His father looked him in the eye. "I meant….you still have me and Pops, Erin, Jamie, your boys. The boys especially need you. So take a breath, calm down, and come back inside. We're holding dinner for you."

"I'm not hungry. Go on and have dinner without me."

"Then don't eat," his father said—as he had months ago after the fire. "But you know we'll be sitting there until you join us." The older Reagan went back inside.

Danny kicked the wall, cursed his throbbing toe.

Damn family tradition. They could eat without him for once…they'd done it before, when he was in the Corps. His dad had missed family dinners, so had his grandfather and siblings. He was pretty sure his boys were the only people who hadn't missed family dinner.

After a few minutes, he stalked back inside, sat down, and said the prayer as quickly as he could without getting scolded.

"How's the house?" Jamie asked cautiously.

He shrugged. "We're getting settled in." Hard to get settled in in a new house, when nothing around you was familiar. Furniture, knick-knacks, memorabilia…all new, donated, or gifts, because the only thing that had survived the fire had been the small fire-proof safe where he kept his off-duty weapon, his medal from Fallujah, and a few important papers.

Dinner was some pasta dish Erin had made.

He poked at it, listened to the chit-chat of his family.

Swallowed a lump in his throat, remembering his dad's words a week ago. "_We are all the better that she occupied her chair so well_."

The chair had quietly disappeared some 16 Sunday dinners ago.

He didn't remember those first few Sunday dinners after her death. He'd gone—because if he hadn't been at that table, he would have been at the bar, getting drunk.

He stared at his plate.

Doc had been trying to get him to admit that her death wasn't his fault. He'd stalked out of those sessions, so the younger man had tried another topic. Trying to find a reason to live, to keep going, had been the theme of the last six weeks or so.

The boys were the obvious reason, but they were older, more self-sufficient, needed him less. At least it felt that way sometimes. Or maybe it was all him—he was useless. He couldn't find his own way out of the sea of anger and denial, so how could he guide them?

He jumped when Jack elbowed him. "What?"

The teen looked at him. "Pops asked about your case."

"Oh. Sorry, Gramps." He rattled off the information the old man had asked about.

Thankfully Jamie and Erin chimed in with their opinions, and soon they were carrying the conversation and no one was looking at him.

Finally, dinner was over and they could leave. Jamie and Erin were on dishes, but he couldn't leave them with his full plate, so he scraped it into a Tupperware container, collected the boys, and went back to the new house.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Words in italics are from a deleted scene from Season 8, Episode 2, "Ghosts of the Past." References to episodes 1-4.**

He had to put on a brave face for the boys—that was what Doc had said, or at least how he interpreted the younger man's "Do you want them to live in anger and denial because you can't get over it?"

So when Jack about broke his heart with that question "Do you mean move on?" he muttered something about how Mom wouldn't want them to stop living their lives.

And then Shelly showed up at the table, and the case consumed his attention for the next week.

When it was all wrapped up, he found himself back at Linda's grave. Had been coming by a couple times a week, and on the 28th of every month—sometimes alone, sometimes with Baez before their tour.

The words he'd said to his partner were the truth, God help him: "_If Linda was here, what would she say? That's about as good a rule of thumb as I have to go on these days_."

Linda would have a lot to say to him if she could see how he'd been doing the past few months.

Hell, she'd probably agree with Jack that he needed to let go of her and move on.

Except that would betray her memory, betray the twenty years they'd had together. He still felt like he was married, like maybe she was just on some long vacation and soon she'd come home and they could be happy again. Or maybe he'd wake up from this nightmare.

Hard to live his life when he wasn't sure he was actually living…

The job was the easy part. Now that he'd decided to stick it out, he just threw himself into it headlong. Caught the bad guys, risked his life to protect the good guys…and bumped his number of civilian complaints for excessive force up to an average of 3 a month. He staying just short of getting himself a rip or a 3-day suspension—he couldn't handle the time he'd then have to spend at home.

He was trying his damnedest to be there for the boys. They weren't talking to him, though. Except at random, unexpected times, with questions that about made his heart stop.

Doc had had a point, though. He didn't want the boys to live in "anger and denial." He wanted them to talk to him. He'd probably say the wrong thing, though.

He shook his head, wiped some mud off the tombstone. "Miss you, babe."

He still woke up every morning expecting her to be there next to him. The twin-sized bed hadn't helped with that even after a month.

He wanted his family to think he was coping just fine because otherwise they'd do something. He didn't know what, but they would not sit around and watch him self-destruct.

Not that he was in danger of self-destructing.

Just maybe slowly choking to death. Silently drowning.

He pressed his fingers to her cold tombstone and drove home.

* * *

"Thought you were gonna be home an hour ago," Jack muttered at him.

He shrugged. "Had an errand to run."

"We…made dinner," Jack offered, and gestured at the covered plate on the table.

"Thanks. I'm not hungry."

"It's just pasta and chicken. And we didn't burn it, Dad," Sean added with a chuckle.

He forced a smile. "Who's giving you cooking lessons?"

"Pops. He's really good."

Danny nodded, sat down at the table. He hastily blessed himself, took a bite.

The pasta was chewy and the chicken was dry, but he ate enough to satisfy his boys.

"Thanks. You two finished your homework?"

"Almost." They disappeared upstairs.

Danny sank onto the couch.

He and Linda had barely begun to process the loss of the house and all the memories it held, before she was gone.

He wondered what she would have said about the new house.

She would have decorated it.

Teased him about his non-existent cooking skills.

He remembered when they bought their first house.

It was between his tours in Fallujah. Jack was a baby. He and Linda had been married 4 years. He'd seen war, but he hadn't been to hell and back. That would come on his second tour.

He swiped at his eyes. "Miss you, babe," he whispered.

* * *

He huffed as he waited in Doc's waiting room. The last patient was running over, Doc had already been out to tell him that.

Just peachy. Gave him more time to think about the little chat at family dinner the previous day.

Why did people feel the need to tell him he had a lot on his plate? First Baez, now his grandfather?

What the hell did they expect him to say?

Agree with them, and wallow in the puppy-dog eyes and sympathetic glances?

Tell them he was fine?

Snap at them and tell them to leave him alone?

Next person that said he had a lot on his plate was going to get punched.

He was supposed to be "channeling" his anger—that was what Doc had said last week. Yay him, they were back at square one and discussing his problem with anger—as it related to the grief Doc felt he had to work through.

He heard the door open, kept his eyes on the floor as the other patient left; and soon found himself sitting on an all-too familiar chair.

"We had the anger management talk seven years ago, Doc. Why are we doing it again? It's not like I've punched anyone."

"You punched Dr. Weber."

He'd forgotten about that. His shoulders slumped. "Yeah, that was like a month ago; we talked about it."

"You just expressed that you're angry at people telling you that you have a lot on your plate. Why is that?"

He shook his head, stared at his shoes. "Because…it doesn't help," he finally whispered.

"What would help?"

He shrugged. "No one talks about Linda. I mean, the boys do, but…that's different. Dad, Jamie, Erin, Pops…they don't mention her name, like they're afraid I'll explode if they do."

"Would you?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. But not talking about her…acting like she never existed…is worse."

"Why's that?"

His phone rang. "Sorry, Doc."

It was Baez, saying the warrant had come through for their case; so he left with a hurried promise to schedule another session that week.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Tag: 8-06 and 8-07**

Work got busy (at least that's what Danny was telling himself), and he cancelled his next few sessions with Doc.

A couple of weeks passed, and another Monday morning rolled around.

Sean ran out the door, and Danny slumped into a chair at the table, leaned his head on his hand. His son's question had knocked the breath out of him.

"_Why did she die and not you?_"

His kid wanted him dead.

His kid thought he should have died instead of Linda.

This was probably a good time to call his shrink and ask for a session. But that would mean saying the words out loud.

_I should have died instead of Linda_.

He _couldn't_ say that out loud.

Never mind that he'd thought it every single f-g day for the past six months.

He pulled his phone out, turned the volume on. Looked at the last picture he'd taken of Linda. About two weeks before the fire, they'd gone on a date night. He'd taken a selfie of them.

He scrubbed at his face.

His phone rang. "Reagan, are you deaf? You and Baez caught a case. Need you there ASAP."

"Sorry, boss, had my phone off." He looked at it. Yep, two missed calls. Damn.

He drove as quickly as he could.

Told Baez he was late because of traffic. Was not going to tell his partner about his little chat with Sean that morning.

Told his partner nothing was wrong.

Later, back at the precinct, she asked again.

"For the last time, Baez, nothing's wrong!" He cursed loudly, and she shut up.

He apologized later—without telling her what exactly had knocked him off-kilter.

* * *

Since it was a Monday, and since Doc still kept that 8 p.m. slot open, he called the boys, told them he'd be home late.

He had expected Doc to chew him out for cancelling his last three appointments. Instead, the younger man simply asked, "What's wrong, Danny?"

He stared at his shoes. "My kid wishes I were dead."

"Jack said that?"

"Sean. Not in so many words, but…it's what he meant."

"What words did he use, Danny?"

"'_Why did she die and not you_?'"

He flinched a little.

"How did that make you feel?"

"Guilty."

"Linda's death was an accident. It wasn't your fault, Danny."

Wasn't the first time Doc had said that. Wasn't the first time Danny had wanted to yell at him and tell him he was wrong. But he was too freaking exhausted to contradict Doc.

He stared at his shoes while Doc blathered about guilt and Sean and feelings; and then he said again, "It wasn't your fault, Danny"; and Danny fled.

* * *

He talked to Sean, and he thought that was going better, until a few weeks later when the kid was all fussy because Danny wasn't getting him cereal.

Linda had babied him, that was for sure. Kid was 15. Way old enough to get his own cereal.

"Don't let yourself feel guilty because Linda's not around anymore," Baez said when he told her.

Nice words, but it didn't help. He _was_ guilty. It was his fault she was dead. He was doing a lousy job at this single parent thing. Boys would have been better off with her alive and him dead.

He slogged through the day.

His dad had once told Danny that he and his mom used to fight in the bathroom with the shower running so he and his siblings couldn't hear.

If he cried in the bathroom that evening with the shower on…well, the boys couldn't hear, so who's to say it had happened?


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Trigger Warning: Suicidal ideation**.

That Tuesday night, Danny stayed at work until well after 9 p.m. finishing paperwork.

He stopped by the cemetery before he went home.

"Hard to believe it's been 6 months, babe. I miss you. Not sure how to go on without you."

He stayed there until the cold November wind had him shivering.

He drove home, hollered at the boys that he was home, they hollered back that they had finished their homework and were going to bed; and then Danny unholstered his off-duty weapon.

He set it on the counter. He was too beat to go upstairs and lock it away in the safe.

He unlocked the liquor cabinet, poured himself a generous serving of whiskey.

It had been a while since he had indulged.

Tonight, though, he just needed to forget.

He drained the glass in one swallow—another thing he rarely did.

It burned his throat.

He felt his head start to spin a bit. He hadn't eaten dinner. Baez had offered since they were both catching up on paperwork, but he hadn't been hungry.

O well.

He poured a little more whiskey, swallowed half of it.

"Dad, what are you doing?"

He jumped, dropping the glass.

It shattered, and he looked towards the stairs to see Jack staring at him.

"Just having a little nightcap before bed."

The teen walked toward him slowly. "With your weapon right there? You always told me and Sean never to mix alcohol and a loaded gun."

"Go to bed, Jack. I'm fine."

"No. I know what today is. You taught me how to unload your gun—remember? Mom was pissed at you, but you made sure I knew basic gun safety."

Danny was too unsteady on his feet to get over to the counter before Jack had the weapon in his hands and deftly unloaded it.

The 18-year-old put the bullets in his pocket.

He said something which Danny didn't catch, then went back upstairs.

Danny walked over to the couch and sat down.

He buried his face in his hands and wept for Linda.

* * *

His head was killing him.

Someone was talking to him but he couldn't make out the words.

He scrubbed his eyes.

He'd fallen asleep on the couch.

He sat up to see his father looking at him disapprovingly.

"Dad…what the hell…why are you here?"

"Jack called me. He said he came downstairs to get a drink of water, and you were down here drinking whiskey with your loaded off-duty weapon not secured."

"Won't happen again," he slurred. "What time is it?"

"About 2 a.m. Why didn't you call me, Danny?"

He shook his head. "Wasn't planning to get drunk."

"What happened?"

He shook his head. "Not now. I need coffee and a shower."

"No. First we talk, then coffee."

Danny leaned his aching head in his hands.

"Every single f-g time somebody dies…Grandma, Mom, Joe, now Linda….Grandpa says that same blasted line about '_Some people say we've had more than our share of loss but I see God's light in this family_.'"

He shook his head. "There's no more light in this family, Dad! Four of us taken too soon, and those of us who should have died…still left here. I should have died at least three different times in Fallujah. More times than I can count on the job. Sean was right—I should have died! But no, God just takes another family member from me! Maybe Mom and Joe and Linda would still be alive if I hadn't made it home from that second tour."

"Danny. You don't mean that. You're drunk, go sober up. Things'll look better in broad daylight."

"No, they won't! Linda will still be gone, and I'll still be here."

"Danny. How long have you been feeling like this?"

"Every single day," he whispered, and stalked upstairs to his solitary bedroom with its Marine-style twin bed.


	10. Chapter 10

His head was killing him, and his mouth tasted like something had died in it.

Stupid hangover.

He sat up, scrubbed his face, looked blearily at the clock. 8:00 a.m. No way that was right, he didn't have a four-by that night. He should have been at work 30 minutes ago!

He dressed, raced down the stairs, hollering at the boys.

His dad was sitting on the couch reading the paper. "Dad, what are you doing here? Did we lose power? Why didn't I wake up?"

"You didn't wake up because you were hung-over. I'm here because we need to talk."

"I don't have time to talk, I'm late for work and I have to get the boys up."

His dad handed him a mug of coffee. "The boys are at school, and I called you in sick."

He gulped it down, cursed as it scalded his throat. "What the hell, Dad? You can't do that!"

"I'm the police commissioner, so, yes I can. I'm also your father, and I am not letting my son go to work with a loaded gun after what you said last night."

He stalked into the kitchen, jerked the refrigerator door open, pulled a loaf of bread out, and slammed it on the counter.

He ripped the bag open, slammed toast into the toaster. "Dad, I was drunk, I didn't mean it!"

"But you said it."

"Come on, Dad, don't tell me you didn't feel like that after Korea, after you lost Mom!"

"I lost Mom because she was sick, not because of an accident."

"So?"

"So it's been six months and the boys say you only talk about Linda if they bring her up. The nights you are home, half the time you fall asleep on the couch, and half the time they hear you working the floor in your room. The rest of the time you stay late at work and leave your boys home alone."

"Dammit, Dad! I'm not neglecting Jack and Sean!"

"Then explain to me what happened last night. You getting home late, Jack telling me he cleaned broken glass and whiskey off the kitchen floor?"

"I didn't mean to get drunk! I had a tough case, and it's been six months since…"

He choked on the words.

He swallowed hard. "I just wanted to forget. I guess I also forgot I hadn't eaten dinner. I didn't drink any more than I usually drink. I dropped the glass because Jack startled me!"

Frank held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, okay. I know what day it is. A year will be harder. You need to make sure you're in a good head-space. Schedule an appointment with Dawson for the anniversary. I'm sure he would have been happy to talk to you last night."

He shook his head. "I saw him the night before last. He's gonna get tired me of seeing me at this rate."

"I don't think he's going to get tired of you. You're trying to work through your grief."

"Says the man who always said 'Reagans don't do therapy'!" Danny snapped. "Part of 'working through' whatever the hell it is you think I need to work through—includes working my actual job! I can't sit around all day doing nothing! I have one income, and the bills are eating me up!"

"Then let Dr. Dawson be the judge of whether or not you can go to work today."

The doorbell rang.

Even through the closed blinds, Danny recognized the silhouette. "You called Dawson? What the hell, Dad?"

His father stood up. "I'll be back in an hour."

Doc came in as Danny's dad left.

Danny buttered his toast without making eye contact with Doc. "Do you make a habit of house calls? Showing up unannounced when your patient's father calls you?"

"Only when I think my patient is a danger to himself."

The words were oddly reminiscent of words they'd exchanged during the Corporal Russell case some four years ago.

Danny grabbed a plate, sat down at the kitchen table. "Maybe I said some stuff last night. But I was drunk—it doesn't matter what I said."

"Then tell me how you feel right now about what you said last night. Do you still think that you should have died instead of Linda?"

Danny stared at his toast. "So what if I do?"

"Jack and Sean need you, Danny."

"No. What they need is their Mom."

"Danny, what was it you told that single father the other week?"

He knew he shouldn't have been telling Doc every single conversation that made him think about Linda…

He tore his toast in half.

"That…his kids needed him to be the best possible parent he could be, since he was the only parent they had."

"That's not what you said, Danny. You told me that you were talking about yourself. Quote, '_I got to make sure that the one parent those boys do have is the best possible parent he can be_.'"

"Your memory sucks," Danny groused. "So what if I said that? Maybe I was just making a point. I B.S. on the job all the time."

"You wouldn't make that up. Not this soon."

His shoulders slumped. Doc was right, damn his perception.

"So…can I go to work?"

"Danny. Your father called you in sick. I'm not crossing him—because I'm not entirely sure you _should_ go to work today. Plus, we still have a lot to talk about."

He'd heard that one before.

"Tell me about last night, how you ended up at the liquor cabinet," Doc said.

He shrugged, stood up and got himself another cup of coffee. "Nothing to tell. Worked late, dropped by the cemetery, came home, had a couple shots of whiskey."

"What was so significant about yesterday?"

"Dammit, Doc, stop acting like you don't know! It's been six months! Half a freaking year without Linda! I just wanted to forget!"

"You could have talked to your boys about their mom, called your father or grandfather, or called me if you were really struggling. You had several healthier coping options—why did you hit the bottle?"

"Because talking about her…wouldn't have helped me forget."

"What were you trying to forget, Danny?"

"That it's my fault she's dead," he whispered, and stalked upstairs, leaving Dawson to let himself out.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Apologies for the almost-year-long delay since I updated this. I had a severe case of writer's block, then real life was crazy stressful, and some other fanfiction things have been keeping me busy.**

He paced the bare, sterile, barely-lived in bedroom, until he heard Doc leave.

Then he stalked downstairs, finished his breakfast, and drove to the cemetery.

He sat there until quiet footsteps sounded behind him.

Without turning, he said, "You can't sneak up on me, Doc."

"Wasn't trying to. I was hoping we could finish our conversation," Doc said, sitting down next to him.

He shrugged. "Nothing to talk about. Sean wishes I were dead—he said as much a few weeks ago, remember? He and Jack would both be better off if I were dead."

"And that is what concerns me: you thinking that your boys would be better off if you had died instead of Linda."

"I'm not having this conversation right now, Doc."

"I'm afraid you are. You're benched for the rest of the day, per your father's orders, and on desk duty until I clear you to carry your weapon."

"Dammit, Doc, you can't do that! I'm not suicidal! I have bills to pay…the boys' tuition for this quarter, rent is due tomorrow, I can't sit around paying you $100 an hour to get my head shrunk, if I'm not working!"

"You know my rates have been much less since Linda's death. I get that you're a single father now. Stop deflecting."

"Deflecting? I'm not deflecting, Doc! I just…"

He shook his head, stood up, and walked to a nearby tree, his back to Doc.

"I miss her, Doc. I…don't know how to…do this without her. I've been trying to make the very small steps…going out for pizza just the three of us, ordering one that had those damn mushrooms on it… getting the boys the basketball hoop. Something Dad said a few months ago…about being stuck in quicksand after he lost Mom. I'm stuck in quicksand and there are no very small steps that will get me out. I just get more and more bogged down," he whispered.

"That's why I want you to take a few days off. Spend some time with your boys. Use that basketball hoop."

He nodded. "It's less than a month till…the first Christmas…without her."

"I know. And that is going to be hard, Danny. And we are going to talk about ways to get through that without hitting the bottle. But tying yourself in knots worrying about what that's going to do to you and the boys…is not gonna help."

He nodded dully, and shivered. He hadn't grabbed his coat when he left.

"Danny. Tell me one thing that was out of your control on May 28."

He flinched a little at the mention of the date. "I worked late. I was on a case, I couldn't just drop it and go home. But I still should have…."

The hand on his shoulder made him jump. "Stop, Danny. No more _shoulds_. There is nothing you could have done. You're not omniscient. You didn't know the helicopter was going to crash. You didn't know Linda was going to get on the helicopter. You could not have changed the outcome. And beating yourself up now…is not helping you or the boys."

He nodded tiredly. "You've said this every week for the past six months."

"And I'll keep saying it until you internalize it and believe it, Danny."

"What if I never can?"

"You will. Be patient with yourself, Danny."

Patience. Not his strong suit on his best day, and this…the past six months…had been 180 of his worst days.

He sighed.

Doc's eyes were boring a hole in him. "Tell me one thing you can do to move forward."

He shrugged.

"Have you played a game of basketball with your boys lately?"

"Not since we set up the hoop."

"Then that's your homework for the day: when the boys get home from school, play basketball with them. Three games. And text me the winner."

"Seriously, Doc? My shrink homework is to play a game of basketball?"

"Three games: you against the boys, you and Jack against Sean, and you and Sean against Jack."

"Whatever. You're not gonna make me do some heavy-duty, nonsensical shrink assignment?"

"Nope. I'll see you next Monday. Call me if you need to before then."

Doc left, and Danny went home and did a load of laundry.

He lost the first game to the boys, Sean won the second game, and he and Sean won the third.

That Sunday was family game night at the new house, but Danny couldn't focus.

He went into the backyard to take a call from Baez, and was trying to find a convincing way to tell his family that he needed to go to work, when the door opened. He looked up to see Erin. "Thought you were playing Scattergories with them."

"Taking a break, boys are making popcorn."

He nodded. "Look, I…I've gotta go to work for a bit."

"At 8 o'clock on a Sunday, Danny? When you told us at family dinner that you were benched until tomorrow?"

His shoulders slumped.

"What's going on, Danny?" Erin asked gently.

"I…there's something I need to get out of my desk. Can you stay with them until I'm back?"

Erin nodded, and Danny drove to the precinct.

He unlocked his desk drawer, pulled out the box in the back. Letters Linda had written to him when he was in Fallujah. He didn't know why he'd kept them here instead of at home, but he was glad now—because they had escaped the fire.

He drove to the cemetery and sat in his car and read through every single one of the 78 letters.

He was asleep, the letters held tightly in his hand, when Baez called him at 8 am to ask why he wasn't at work yet.

He swore and raced to the precinct.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: ****Episode Tag: S08E09—as in, about six months after Linda died, and another six months before the season finale.**

* * *

Regardless of what his dad said, it _was_ his fault Baez had overdosed. He'd been distracted with…well, all the usual stuff that kept him up at night, plus Christmas in less than a month and looming bills…and the boys' tuition for next semester had increased.

He left the boys with his dad and spent the nights at the hospital with his partner. Sometimes he let himself sleep, but most nights he sat there and wondered how many partners he'd burn through if Baez didn't make it.

There'd been a lot of partners before her…he burned through them like smokers burn through cigarettes…but he trusted Baez. And he didn't think he could handle losing her this soon after losing Linda.

When he dropped Baez off at her apartment, he told her he was going to go pick up the boys and they'd do some Christmas shopping, since he had a rare Saturday off.

Instead, he drove to a tall office building and knocked on a door on the second floor.

The door was open, Doc putting up a simple wreath. "Detective Reagan, how's your partner?"

"Better. She's home. Sorry I had to cancel Monday. Thanks for re-scheduling."

He walked in the office, sat down in his usual chair as Doc closed the door and poured two cups of coffee. "Of course. You said you had a conversation with your dad that you needed to talk about."

He rubbed the back of his neck, took the coffee, and drained it in two gulps. "Dad asked how I was doing with Baez being sick, and I asked him: '_If bad things keep happening around the same person, are they still just accidents?'_"

It sounded really stupid now that he'd said it out loud for the second time, and he tried to move on quickly. "Dad said '_Don't_'…"

Doc held up a hand. "Slow down, Danny. Tell me what you were thinking, what you meant by that."

He sighed, twisted his wedding ring on his finger. "Linda died. Baez almost died. The only constant there…is me. I'm the one…it should have been me who overdosed. Just like it should have been me instead of Linda that night."

He swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. Dammit, he was getting choked up again…

"My dad said '_Don't make this about that,'_ whatever that means. I should've known there were drugs in the apartment. I should've had my partner's back."

"Danny, there's nothing down that road but a black hole. Don't go there. Why do you think this is your fault?"

"She's my partner, I'm supposed to have her back!" he snapped, and bolted to his feet, ready to head for the door.

"Danny, we still have a lot to talk about. Please don't storm out like this."

He stopped in his tracks.

* * *

_Racing to the hospital with Baez…he'd had his heart in his throat just…_

_Just like when he was running down the hospital corridor as Linda was wheeled into surgery, trying to shove past two doctors…and then Jamie holding him back. "Don't worry. They got her. Everything's gonna be all right."_

_It had been all right then. Two years later…he'd run down hospital corridors to the morgue. No one had tried to stop him that day…_

_And nothing had been all right since._

* * *

He stalked back to his chair, and slumped into it.

"What were you thinking about just now?" Doc asked quietly.

"When Linda got shot. About two…two-and-a-half years ago. I…I was gonna shove my way into the operating room to see her; Jamie had to hold me back, and…and he said 'Everything's gonna be all right.' I almost lost her then. Now she's dead, and I…nothing's all right, Doc."

He took a shaky breath, wiped some tears off his face, stared at his feet. He didn't want to look up and see the sympathy in Doc's eyes because he might just lose it and start bawling like a baby. "I miss her."

"I know," Doc said quietly. "How are you sleeping? Are you still having nightmares about how you found out about Linda's death?"

He nodded.

"How did you feel, faced with the possibility of losing Detective Baez?"

He couldn't swallow around the lump in his throat. "Like…outside of my family, Baez has been the only constant in my life since Linda…." He cleared his throat. "I can't lose her, not this soon after … after losing Linda."

"What do you think your dad meant: '_Don't make this about that_'?"

He shrugged. "To not compare what happened to Baez, to…to Linda's…death."

Doc nodded as if he knew something Danny didn't. "Has Detective Baez's accident had you thinking more about Linda?"

He shrugged. "Don't think it's possible to think about her more than I already do. It's always there: every time I wake up, every time I walk in the door of the house, every time I sit down to family dinner, every time I reach for my phone expecting her to be calling…"

He shook his head, stood up. "Why do bad things keep happening to people I care about?" he whispered, and fled the room before Doc could start spouting platitudes at him.

* * *

He picked the boys up even as they grumbled that they wanted to finish their video game. "Nope. I told you we're doing Christmas shopping for Aunt Erin and Uncle Jamie today."

After the mall, he drove to a Christmas tree lot. The boys ran off, and Danny sighed when he counted the bills in his wallet. He hoped they picked a small one.

He followed them to where they were standing, looking sadly at a scraggly tree. "I don't want a tree," Jack said. "Mom always decorated it. And…we don't have…any of the ornaments. Like my Snoopy one, or Sean's teddy bear. They all…burned."

Danny cursed, stalked back to the car, got in, and slammed the door.

"Sorry," Jack muttered.

"It's okay, kiddo. I'm mad at myself for not thinking about that. Let's just go home."

"Are you okay, Dad? You look sad," Sean said.

He considered lying, then stopped himself. "I'm just…missing your Mom a lot. With Christmas coming and everything."

Jack nodded. "Can…can we…go to the cemetery? We haven't been since…"

He nodded. "After we take all this stuff home, we'll have dinner, then go to the cemetery. I'm sorry I haven't taken you."

"You…you've been going?" Sean asked.

"Yeah. After work, or before work."

He cursed himself quietly. Linda would've done better than that if it'd been him that died. She wouldn't have waited for them to ask to go.

"We should take flowers," Jack whispered.

Sean looked at him. "That's girly."

"Mom would've liked 'em."

Danny cursed. He was going to break down if the boys didn't stop talking.

He changed his mind about going home for dinner, and instead drove to a grocery store and gave the boys money to get the best bouquet they could find.

After ten minutes, they came out with a bouquet of roses and daisies.

He nodded when they asked if he liked it, then drove to the cemetery and held his boys close.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Apologies for the author's note on the last chapter**.

He was shaving before Mass when his phone rang.

When the phone call was over, he dressed quickly and went downstairs, where his boys were eating cereal. "I've gotta go, boys, I'm sorry."

"But it's Christmas Eve," Sean said sadly.

"I know, but I drew the short straw this year. Call Uncle Jamie to take you to Mass and family dinner, and pack your bags, you're spending the night with Grandpa."

The boys went upstairs dejectedly, and he cursed.

He didn't say a word to Baez the entire drive to the crime scene, and she finally looked at him. "What's going on with you, Reagan? I thought you'd be glad to catch a case, keep you from thinking."

He stared at the steering wheel. "Any other day, I would, but it's the boys' first Christmas without… their mom. Jack's last Christmas at home—before he goes to college."

She looked at him with that sympathetic look he hated. "Drop me back at the precinct, and get out of here. I'll find somebody to cover for you."

He shook his head. "I can't…"

He needed the holiday bonus for this shift, but no way was he going to tell Baez that.

"Reagan, I've known you fifteen years. Worked with you five. I know you. Right now, though, I can't get a read on you: you wanna work, or you wanna be home with your boys?"

He cursed quietly, rubbed the back of his neck. "I…I should be home with the boys."

"Then drop me off at the precinct, and I'll cover for you. Go on, get outta here."

Feeling like a whipped dog, he snuck into church 40 minutes later. The boys' eyes lit up when they saw him, though his dad pursed his lips in a way Danny hadn't seen in years.

"Thought you were working," his dad said after Mass.

"Yeah, I…was. But…"

He stared at his feet. "Baez got Detective what's-her-name to cover for me."

"You ask her to do that?"

"No, Baez offered. Look, Dad, I need to be here, with the boys. First Christmas since…"

"I know. But you should have found someone to cover for you—before today."

He nodded. "I thought I'd…want the distraction. But all I could think about was the boys."

"Make sure it doesn't happen again, Detective," his father said shortly.

"Yes, sir," he said, realizing he was in hot water, and walked to the car.

He should have planned ahead, but that would have meant thinking about this first Christmas without Linda, and he'd been trying to not do that.

They went as a family to the cemetery, Erin with bouquets for each of the 4 graves.

After a few minutes, the rest of the family went back to their cars, and Danny was staring at Linda's grave. He was a bit disappointed the boys had left, and he shivered.

He pulled the bouquet of roses out from under his coat, laid it on Linda's grave. "Merry Christmas, babe. Miss you."

He swiped at his eyes. "Gonna be hard tomorrow. Without you. Boys are already asking me hard questions…girls, and why'd you have to die and not me. I'd give my left arm if it were me in that grave. I don't know how to do this, babe. You would have done better about bringing them to the cemetery, and talking to them about stuff, and…."

He took a shaky, shuddering breath. "Gotta go, or Pops'll have my head for being late to family dinner."

He bent down, kissed his hand, put it to her cold tombstone. "Love you." The wind whistling was his only reply, and he scrubbed at his face. "Love you most," he whispered, and went back to his car to drive to his dad's.

His dad and grandfather tried to keep the conversation light, talking about favorite memories from Christmases past; but all that did was remind Danny of one year ago, his last Christmas with Linda; and he poked at the traditional Christmas Eve meal and moved it around his plate.

"Why do we always have fish for Christmas Eve?" he grumbled.

"Thought you liked it," his dad said.

"I hate fish."

"It's tradition. You don't like it…don't eat. Keep it civil," his grandfather said sternly, and Danny took a bite of potatoes.

After dinner they finished decorating the tree and sang carols. Danny couldn't sing around the lump in his throat.

He slipped into the backyard during a rousing version of "Silent Night," pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"Merry Christmas, Danny."

The greeting sent a lump into his throat. "Doc," he choked out in a strangled voice. "How…how do you do it? The first Christmas without…?"

"You do what you're doing right now: step away from it all, take a minute to grieve. It's okay, Danny."

He nodded. "Even if I call my shrink in that minute?"

"Yes. How you holding up?"

"I…I miss her," he said. "Last Christmas…last Christmas I didn't have to sing because she was singing loudly enough for both of us. She had an amazing voice, Doc."

"Did you go to her grave?"

"Yeah. We went as a family after Mass. Always do after Christmas Eve, but…this year…"

_This year there was a new grave to visit_.

"I know. I'm sorry, Danny. Take a few deep breaths, wash your face, go back to your family, hug your boys. You're not alone, Danny."

He nodded, swiped at his eyes. "Thanks, Doc," he whispered, and hung up.

He allowed himself the rare luxury of a good cry, then snuck inside, washed his face, and went back to his family.

They were just setting up for what was sure to be a crazy game of Monopoly, and he pulled his boys into a tight hug. "Merry Christmas, boys."

"Um…Merry Christmas. You okay, Dad?" Sean asked.

He nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I will be."


End file.
